


To Be Saved

by Saziikins



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Burnings, Fix-It of Sorts, Jon Snow Lives, Lots of imagined violence, M/M, References to Suicide, Stannis still burned Shireen, Very little actual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davos is a tortured soul, torn between saving Stannis' life and ending it himself. It is the inner struggle of a man left with nothing to fight for, and the man he has always fought for, but despises.  </p><p>This is a sort-of fix-it from the Game Of Thrones series in that season five unravelled as it did. But Brienne lets Stannis go, and that is where the fic picks up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Saved

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of violence in this, most of it in Davos' head and not actually taking place. But the violence is a little graphic in places. There is also some sex, some semblance of fluff, but mostly pain, pain and more pain.

He rides to The Wall on horseback. His body is slumped over the saddle, the reins tied to his wrists, ropes binding his ankles to the stirrups. Ser Davos is alerted to his arrival from where he remains a silent guard outside the Lady Melisandre’s cell. He stands a steward in his place and walks to the courtyard, but every footstep feels laboured, as though the devastation in his heart is being directed down to his feet.

The cold air still smells like burning flesh, and the pyre is still aflame with the bodies of traitors, those who wanted to see their Lord Commander dead. He isn’t dead, but his eyes lack life. They are forming plans together, he and Jon Snow, but it is slow and relentless work.

They will fight a great battle here soon.

Davos is already fighting a battle in his soul.

He stands and watches as two men cut King Stannis’ ropes. He topples sideways, down and down, onto the compacted snow. He is lucky it’s winter now, Davos thinks with a bitter scowl. Had it not been, he would have landed on hard cobbles, and broken his ribs or hit his head. Davos thinks it would have been the least he deserved.

The king is hauled up by his shoulders and half-dragged into the castle. Davos follows. Hasn’t he always?

This man was always more than his king, his grace. He was his God, his only God, a source of moral authority, a supreme being. Davos feels as though his God is corrupted. A golden coin which has become blackened and crumbled away into dust.

He follows the members of the Night’s Watch to the king’s former chambers at The Wall, where they push him onto the bed. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. No one knows how he came to be here, nor the outcome of the battle. It may be a miracle he is even alive.

“Undress him,” Davos orders. “He might be wounded.”

There is no Maester to tend to him even if he is. Davos thinks he should plunge his sword into Stannis’ stomach and drag it up through his chest and hear him scream. His own urges repulse him. He is not a violent man, and never once has he wanted to murder another in the coldest of bloods before.

He can hear sweet, gentle Shireen’s screams as she burned ringing in his ears, even though he was not there as it happened. He has seen the burning of many men throughout his service to King Stannis. He knows the smell of burning flesh, indeed, can still smell it. He knows the shrieks, the begging for mercy. He can hear Shireen’s cries and it makes his knees weak and blood boil.

He watches as his king is undressed, leaving him shivering, though he has a line of sweat on his brow. Dried blood covers his face and neck. Most of the blood belongs to other men. The fire is lit, and the room is filled with thick smoke which makes them all cough.

Stannis is covered in bruises, one on his temple, and others littering his chest and ribs. Davos has seen many injuries in his life, and he does not think Stannis’ ribs are broken. Indeed, the only injury of any note is his right leg, pus oozing from a deep and bloody wound.

Davos does not need a Maester to tell him what needs to be done. “Give him milk of the poppy, as much as can be spared. Then find the sharpest sword you can, and cut it off.”

Wide eyes meet his. “Ser Davos,” the ranger starts. “We cannot spare much. If-”

“-This is your King.”

“All due respect,” another member of the Night’s Watch pipes up. “This is not our king. There are many men fighting for the throne. But there is only one King which matters now. The White King.”

Davos clenches his hands into fists. The man is right. Better to kill Stannis now and be done with it than offer him a chance of life with the amputation of his leg. Davos would do it himself. Fold Stannis’ limp body over a block and cut his head off, and add his body to the pyre outside.

And yet.

He has been moulded into a man loyal to King Stannis. His repulsion towards him, his hatred, twists in his gut. He wants to wrap his hands around his naked throat and strangle the air out of him. He wants to see his eyes open and dawn with realisation he is being killed by his own man, the man who kneeled to him, the man who would have been his Hand.

But Davos will not do it.

“You follow my orders, or you fetch the Lord Commander,” Davos says. “He will order it instead and he will question why you do not follow my command.”

The man nods once and retreats. King Stannis is dressed again, and thick furs are wrapped around his shoulders. His right leg is left bare. Davos considers offering himself to be the one to rid him of his leg. But with one swipe of his sword, he is not sure he would be able to stop. He would cut him limb from limb, until blood splattered his face and arms and the walls and the bed, and then the pyre would burn with the flesh of his once most moral and noble king.

So while the preparations are being made, Davos returns to the Lady Melisandre’s cell. She sits in the corner, hands folded, a faint smile on her face as their eyes meet. They both know she resurrected Jon Snow, and she is too useful to take to the scaffold. But Davos wants it. Because his king was a good man until he was corrupted by her.

Davos will not tell her about Stannis. Instead he stands watch at her cell, though he does not know what he waits for. He sees the ranger from earlier walk into the courtyard and Davos finally leaves his own watch and heads for Stannis’ room.

His king is asleep. Davos lifts the coverings to inspect his right leg. It has been sliced off just above the knee, and ligatures and rags have been tied around it. Blood and corruption have stained the sheets, and it smells of burned flesh. The least he deserves.

Davos drops the sheets and covers him again, and prods the fire it keep it strong. He stands by the window, arms folded across his chest. The courtyard is busy with Wildlings and the Night’s Watch, making preparations for a war Davos is convinced they cannot win.

Once he would have sat at Stannis’ side and prayed for him to wake so he could lead them. Stannis would know what to do and how to defeat the army. But Stannis is as good as dead, and despite the milk of the poppy and the amputation, he may not make it. Part of Davos hopes he dies. Part of him hopes he wakes so he has the pleasure of killing him himself. Another part of him just wants him back as he was.

And though he keeps planning to leave the room, he does not. He sits by the fire and remembers times gone by, the reasons he pledged his loyalty to Stannis, the times when things were good, the battles they fought together.

When Stannis groans in pain, Davos is the one to give him milk of the poppy.

“You should die for what you did,” Davos mutters when Stannis sleeps once more. “I should kill you. And you would think yourself lucky I could only kill you once.”

But his words are meaningless. He spends his days with Jon Snow and with Stannis. Every muscle in his body aches. He feels older than he ever has.

He sits beside his king. He sits beside a man he despises more than any other.

He mourns for Princess Shireen. He tries to read, but the letters seem to be slipping away from his understanding.

He remembers the first time he saw Stannis, painfully thin, and eating no more than the men under his command were. And then Davos unloaded the crates of onions and foods, and realisation dawned on Stannis’ face that he would live another day. Despite his starvation, he ate last. Davos found himself admiring the man. When Stannis finally ate, with Davos sat at his side, he did so slowly, deliberately.

And though he punished Davos for his crimes, he did so because he was just. Not now. He murdered his daughter. The sweet Shireen, who should have sat on the Iron Throne herself. Davos would have done anything for her. Now he can scarcely picture her face.

Days pass, snow falls, he is waiting. They all are. Waiting for the war to begin, waiting for letters from King’s Landing, from anywhere, to indicate they are not alone on The Wall.  
Everyone is losing hope. Men will fight the dead. Davos suspects the dead will win, and they will join the dead thereafter.

On the eighth day, Stannis opens his eyes. He stares into the corner of the room, reaching out with a shaky hand. “Renly,” he croaks out. “No. No.”

Davos stands and tucks Stannis’ hand back beneath the covers. “Sleep,” he says. And Stannis does. But it is restless. Corruption has taken hold of his leg. They are fighting it the best they can, but all they can do is change the dressings, and hope the corruption slows down.

Stannis is feverish, hot to touch. He writhes on the bed and groans in his sleep. He looks as though he has been taken over by some spirit, twisting his joints into disfiguring shapes. Sometimes he sits up and grasps for his right leg, and finding it missing he lets out an anguished cry. He is given milk of the poppy and he settles again.

He calls for Davos. He started doing that on the eleventh day.

“He is asking for you,” Jon Snow tells him. “No one else will do.”

Agitated, Davos storms to the room. Stannis has almost fallen off the bed, and it would be comical if it wasn’t so serious. His leg is bleeding and Davos is the only one who will bother to tend to the king now. He is a lost cause, as far as the others are concerned.

Davos chops firewood outside, because it gives it something to do, and because it is the only way he can unleash his anger. Any other way would involve punching Stannis in the face until he woke and then stabbing him with a dagger wherever Davos could reach. But he has waited for so many days for Stannis to awake, it seems pointless to end his life now.

No.

If, or when, he kills his king, it will be when he is aware of it. When he can see the determination in Davos’ face.

Jon Snow tells him it is time to give up, but Davos will not. His instinct is to remain at his king’s side. He also wants to smash his face in with the blunt end of his sword, but he does not.

He sleeps on the floor beside his king’s bed, and he keeps the fire going, and he gives him milk of the poppy. Soon, his own dinners are being brought to the room. He barely speaks to the members of the Night’s Watch. They seem to be pitying him for being so pathetic, so endlessly loyal to a violent, murderous king.

Stannis wakes on the fifteenth day. Davos is there. Their eyes meet and then Stannis unleashes such a cry of agony that every inch of Davos aches for him. He has to pin Stannis down to the bed with his whole arm as he gives him milk of the poppy and tries desperately to stop the king from removing the bindings on his leg.

Stannis sleeps, but it is restless. He hallucinates, and mumbles names again and again. Robert, Renly, Shireen, Davos, over and over, just those names, endless and despairing.

When he wakes again, he asks for Shireen. Davos silently shakes his head.

Stannis stares at him, unblinking. Davos has to swallow back his rage. He wants to lunge to the bed and beat him with his fists until he is unrecognisable. Instead he remains on the chair and clenches his hands into fists and bites his tongue.

“It’s true,” Stannis whispers, looking away. “What I did.”

“It is, your grace,” Davos spits out. He has to look away too. If he doesn’t, then he may very well slice Stannis’ throat open with his sword.

“Go, Ser Davos.”

Davos frowns. “Sorry?”

“Leave. Go. I order you to leave me.”

“No, your grace. You need milk of the poppy and-”

“-Leave me.” Stannis’ voice shakes, and is thick with emotion. Davos turns his head to look at him again. Stannis’ face is turned away from him, but his shoulders shake, and he grips the furs with his hands.

He lets out an anguished cry, and it is wretched out of him, as though someone has reached into his chest and yanked out his pain, visceral and wretched. It’s a yell which breaks Davos’ resolve, and makes him feel brittle and ruined. Stannis’ scream turns into a sob, and he covers his face in his hands.

His body is wracked with sobs. Davos sinks back into the chair and drops his own face into his hands. His own tears threaten. His bottom lip shakes and he bites it as hard as he can. He covers his ears with his hands, because he does not want to listen to his king crying. It almost makes Davos pity him. He positively aches with sympathy.

He wants to throttle him. He wants to throw him off the top of The Wall and watch him fall so far, he would not even be able to hear the crack when his body breaks.

But he slides the chair closer to the bed, the legs screeching along the wooden floor. He bends forward, so his forehead rests against the throws and the furs. Stannis’ hand, cold and wet with tears, finds his own. His long, thin fingers dig in so hard, they may well be causing bruises. 

Davos knows they share the same torment, and so he allows the touch, even while he is repulsed by it. Stannis clings to his hand until he falls asleep, tears drying on his cheeks.

Stannis’ leg heals. It stops seeping blood and pus, and on the twenty-first day, he sits on the bed and stares down at the stump, running his hand down the length of his leg, getting a feel for how his body is now shaped.

“You should have all left me to die,” he mutters. “I fought in battle. I should have died in battle. I would have died in my rightful place if it weren’t for Renly’s ridiculous brute of a woman deciding her duty was to spare me.” 

“I’m sworn to protect you,” Davos replies, while he touches the sword he carries at his side. He is sworn to protect. But he also wonders if he should be sworn to avenge. 

Stannis lies down and covers his leg with the furs. “You should leave me now,” he commands, and Davos does. He fears if he does not, he would have no second thoughts about cutting off Stannis’ other leg and letting him bleed out.

His king is reluctant to try walking with the splints he has been given, but he shuffles around his room with them anyway and watches out of the window. Much of his time is spent by the fire, where he reads dusty books or speaks in hushed tones with Jon Snow. Davos stands guard outside the door. Both Stannis and Jon fear their lives are at risk any moment from a member of the Night’s Watch.

They look like two dead men when they conspire. Jon Snow has no life left in his eyes, and Stannis is pale and thin, and he holds a dagger in his lap, contemplating it. Davos thinks Stannis considers ending his life. Every morning, when he goes to see his king, he expects to find him dead. Stannis is too stubborn for that.

He may outlive them all.

Davos despairs at the thought of it. They do not talk of Shireen or Selyse, or the Boltons, or anything which came before. They talk only of the White Walkers and weapons. Some days, Stannis reads on his bed while Davos carves figures out of wood he has hidden for himself to pass the time.

Stannis instructs him in how to carve Cyvasse pieces. Davos wants to shove the carving knife into Stannis’ temple. Instead, he carves the pieces and Stannis begins to teach him how to play.

It’s soothing, to pretend all that matters is the game. To learn the tactics and strategies. They are far easier than the strategies they may have to devise to fight the White Walkers. It is like being children alive in a simpler time, without the threat of war. When they play well, Davos manages to forget everything else.

But sometimes he can’t. Stannis has a book in his hands where he sits on the bed. Davos is trying to talk to him about a White Walker sighting, but Stannis appears to have lost interest in everything but his book.

“Your grace,” Davos finally snaps.

Stannis peers at him from over the book. He narrows his eyes. “You’re angry, Ser Davos.”

“I am angry. Do you even care about what’s coming?”

Stannis regards him for a moment then returns to his book. “Not particularly.”

“It’s nice to see you care more about your readings than you did your daughter.”

That seems to be the trigger. Stannis slams the book shut, and he turns his body so he is sat on the edge of the bed, real fire and fury in his blue eyes. One leg of his breaches hangs loose where his right leg should be.

“Say what you mean,” Stannis tells him.

“You know what I mean without me saying it. Your grace.” He spits the words with real venom. This isn’t his king. This man is a murderer, repugnant, not fit to be sitting in this castle in the best rooms as though they are his.

“I command it, Ser Davos.” Stannis’ voice is even, but Davos can see the tension in the lines of his face, in the shaking of his hands, in the way he clenches his jaw.

“You murdered the Princess Shireen,” Davos spits out, rising from his chair so he is standing above his king. “You let her burn. By rights, you should burn too.”

“Then, seven hells, just end it.” Stannis grabs the dagger from the tabletop, and wraps Davos’ hands firmly around its handle. Stannis’ hands are cold wrapped around Davos’ as he raises his arms until the dagger’s shiny point hovers above Stannis’ bare throat. He lifts his head to expose more of his skin. “End it,” Stannis spits out. “I’m not afraid of it. What is it they say in Essos? That all men must die? Well, I am long past my time. Do what is just, Ser Davos, and do to me as I did to her.”

Stannis drops his hands to his sides, leaving Davos stood above his king, the dagger in his hands. And he could. He could just lurch forward and sink the blade into Stannis’ waiting throat. He could end it all, and watch the look in his eyes as he realises he is dying. But Davos sees both Stannis’ eyes and Shireen’s eyes. The same blue, the same shape. To watch Stannis die would be like seeing Shireen die. And for all the hatred in Davos’ heart, he has always been, and remains, Stannis’ man.

The dagger clatters to the floor and Davos takes a step back. “I cannot, your grace,” he says, though he hangs his head because he feels both the shame of Shireen’s demise, and the shame that despite that, he is still loyal to his king. “I kneeled to you. I swore my loyalty. I’m too far gone to go back on my word now.”

“Then you are a fool,” Stannis replies, but his words lack his usual bite. “But an honourable fool. The most loyal man I ever knew. What if I commanded you to kill me?”

“I still don’t know if I could, your grace.” Davos lifts his head so their eyes finally meet. “I am, and have always been, your man to do with as you please.” He lifts his maimed hand. “For my sins, and I imagine I have many of those, then I will follow you to the bitter end.”

“You have given too much. You fought for a man who could do nothing but fail.”

Silence passes between them. The dagger remains on the floor, the flickering fire reflected in it. Stannis never admits his failings. It’s the first time Davos realises he was so wrong to ever have held him up to God-like status. Stannis was always flawed. Davos was just unwilling to see it.

“I always sought to do what was right,” Stannis says. “Always do what was just. Who was I to ignore the man in my service who was always right and just all along? It is not you who should bend the knee to me, but I should kneel to you.”

“Your grace-”

“-Stop with that, would you? It’s over, Ser Davos. These titles are meaningless. I would kneel to you and beg your forgiveness right now, but I fear if I bent down I would not be able to get up again without your help. And that would rather defeat the point.”

“I would not dream of you bending the knee to me.”

Stannis looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “The war will come, and we will die together as equals. I cannot promise you a place in the annals of history, but for the here and now, that is what we would be.”

“It’s a gracious thing to say. But I don’t demand it from you.”

“You never demand a thing, do you?” Stannis finally snaps, kicking the dagger so it spins and hits the wall. Stannis turns his head away, his face twisting and distorting. It is an ugly look on him, the mix of contempt and despair and horror. It takes a few moments for his features to relax, for his eyes flick back to meet Davos’. He still looks pained, distressed. He is broken in every single way, his body no longer whole, his cause obliterated, his will to live seemingly gone.

Davos fights his impulse to bend his knee to his king, to try to right the balance between them. Stannis could talk about being equals, but Davos does not feel it. He is standing above his king, in a way he has no right to do. It feels wrong, yet he will not kneel because Stannis has asked that of him.

“I have no right to demand a thing from you,” Davos tells him, keeping his voice as even as he can.

“And yet I have always had a right to demand from you.”

“Every right,” Davos agrees. “You remain my king, in my heart and in my mind. It is impossible to break that now. I am in your service until one or both of us die, and I don’t expect to die as your equal. I am your servant, your grace.”

“But I am yours.” Stannis’ voice is barely a whisper. “I would serve you. I would follow you into battle. I would stand at your side as your sworn knight, and fight for you. And you are not mine to do with as I please, despite your assurances that is the case. There are things I dare not and would not ask of you. But things I wish I could. Yet if you were to ask them of me…” Stannis hangs his head. “You could ask anything of me, Ser Davos,” he adds quietly.

Davos finds his heart is pounding. He cannot hear anything anymore, just the blood running through his ears and his unsteady breath. He cannot find anything to say. He does not know what to ask. He does not know if his king wishes him to ask for something particular.

He drops to both knees before his king. Davos searches his face to find something, anything, he can try to decipher. But there is nothing there. Stannis looks old, fatigued and haggard.

“If you dare not ask, you can’t know my answer,” Davos finally says. “We could speak about it once, and when it’s done then we’ll never talk of it again.”

“But I will know.”

“But we won’t speak of it.”

Stannis looks past Davos and to the window. His hands tremble, with cold or with something else, Davos isn’t sure. “The dawn barely broke today,” Stannis murmurs. “It seems to be a constant darkness now. I thought of ending it myself. Of using that dagger to… but I could not. I would die without…” His face crumbles and he covers his face with his hands. “I don’t believe in the Lord of Light, and I don’t believe in the Seven Gods. This world will become only darkness and ice and stone. I will die having killed the only light in my life. Shireen is gone. My daughter is gone. My bloodline.”

Stannis lowers his hands and holds it out to Davos, as though to cup his cheek. He does not do it. Instead, he curls his fingers so they make a fist in mid-air.

“And you, Ser Davos,” he says, his eyes falling down to his lap. “You offer me promises I only wish you would break so you would prove you are fallible too. Rather than offer me your service, I wish you would betray me. And you don’t. Won’t.”

Stannis lifts his head to look at him, and Davos is sure he has never looked so afraid. “And in those moments when I reach for that dagger, it is your conviction to me which keeps me alive,” Stannis continues. “It is that knowledge that I am yours, and should be serving you. That I would give all you asked for. That I want to give you things I cannot and should not long for. You are not mine, Ser Davos, for I am all yours. I am in servitude to you. I am… devoted to you.” Stannis rests the backs of his cold fingers to Davos’ bearded cheek. He leaves it there for a brief moment before dropping his hand.

Davos reaches for it. He holds it tightly in both of his own, and then stays still, because he does not know his own actions. The air between them feels heavy, and despite the chill, he feels a heat surging through his chest. He doesn’t truly understand. It is unlike his king to speak in so many riddles. But it is unlike his king to talk of devotion, or anything resembling love and affection. It all comes back to him in waves. The rumours of Stannis’ lack of affection towards his wife. Their struggles to bear children. That he would take no whore offered to him by Robert.

He thinks now perhaps he understands Stannis’ meaning but it does not mean he can give anything in return. He hates his king. He also hates that he cannot help but be loyal to him. He hates that rather kill his king, he wishes to protect him. He will stand by his side until he dies. And yes, he thinks the devotion may run both ways. He thinks he has forgotten what colour his wife’s eyes are. He thinks that when he closes his eyes, in his dreams he sees only Stannis, and in those dreams he tries to kill him and fails.

He thinks they have failed together. And he thinks they are joined now, united in their despair and the darkness which will surely engulf them for the rest of their days.

He bends his head and presses his lips lightly to Stannis’ knuckles. He keeps Stannis’ hand firmly in his own as he meets his eyes.

“I offer you my sword to use in war,” Davos says softly, reciting words he used just minutes after Stannis had cut off his fingers. Many years ago, all of that. But those words have always remained in his mind, carried in his heart. “I give you my body, for battle. I pledge you my last breath for counsel, should you ever want it.”

“Wish for it,” Stannis corrects.

Davos manages a small smile. “I pledge you my last breath for counsel, should you ever wish for it.”

“And then you may arise, ser,” Stannis whispers.

“May I offer one last pledge, your grace?”

Stannis frowns at him and nods. “You may.”

“The Lady Melisandre was right about one thing. The night is dark. And it’s terrifying. And I don’t think either of us can face it alone. So I give you my heart, if that’s what you desire.”

“Ser Davos-”

But Davos reaches out his un-maimed hand, using it to trace the shape of Stannis’ strong and defined jaw. “I am your man,” he says. “To do with as you please. However you please. And if it pleases you to be pleased by me, then I offer my body to you to do just that. And if you want to please me back, then I won’t say no.”

Stannis wrenches his hands back. “If you think it’s funny to-”

“-There’s nothing funny about it, is there?” Davos says. “What if I told you that I… am devoted to you in return? That I think I know what you’re trying to say, and I’m beginning to worry I’m wrong, in case you chop my head off. Do you want me to please you, your grace? In all the ways one person could please another? Because not only will I do that for you, I want to do that for you. Not because you’re my king, and I am your servant, but because you are you, and I’m me and… and well, damn this world to hell, because the nights are getting dark and we’re all going to die soon anyway.”

“It’s sinful. What you suggest…”

“But you don’t believe in the Seven. Neither do I. How can we be sinning if there are no Gods to judge us?”

Stannis frowns as he appears to give that some thought. There are no words for what they are and how Davos imagines his king feels, except sinful, wrong, illicit.

Stannis nods his head once. “I have always wanted… I knew I shouldn’t, but I…”

“I understand,” Davos whispers.

“Do you know what to do?”

“I do. While I was smuggling. You spend months away from your wife, men get… restless. I never minded it much. Liked it as much with a man as I did a woman. I can show you.”

“What if I want to… please you?”

“Then I can show you how to do that too.”

Stannis looks up past him to the window again. He clenches his teeth. “There might not be a dawn tomorrow. And if that’s so then I… I would like to feel it. Just once.”

“Are you willing to follow my lead?”

Stannis looks at him then. He takes Davos’ maimed hand in his own and smooths his thumb over his knuckles. “Wherever you lead, I follow. And we are equals in this room. That is my last demand and request.”

“Granted,” Davos replies with a smile. He squeezes Stannis’ hand then stands, going to the fire. He adds more coals and wood and watches it come back to life with renewed vigour. Then he blows out the remaining candles, so the flames are the only thing to illuminate them both.

It is just them and the darkness outside. It may as well be just them in the world. Stannis is still sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, teeth grinding away.

Davos leans over the bed and re-arranges the furs and the coverlets. He grasps Stannis’ shoulders and pushes him down onto the bed until he is lying flat on his back, frowning up at him.

It’s his last chance, he thinks. He could wrap his hands around Stannis’ throat and choke him until the air is gone. He could be free of all of this, of the torment he feels, of the grief for Shireen, of his split-loyalties. Because if he dips his head now and instead of feeling his throat, he feels his lips, he will be spoiled. He will not be able to kill him. He may not even want him dead.

He takes off his tunic, and nods his head for Stannis to do the same. Stannis fumbles with his clothing, peeling it off layer by layer, copying Davos, fabric by fabric. Their clothing finishes in a pile beside the bed, until they are both naked, shivering, Stannis lying on his back, Davos stood beside him.

Stannis is pale, almost as thin as Davos has ever known him. Davos can see the blue veins in his wrists, snaking along wiry arms. He can see his every breath in the rise and fall of his chest. He is very much alive, despite how clearly Davos can see his bones. He is so used to seeing Stannis’ stump leg that he doesn’t even notice it anymore. Blood is pumping around Stannis’ body, he is taking in air, and though his cock is soft, Davos knows he can ease him to hardness, fill him with arousal and desire. In short, Davos can make Stannis actually feel alive. Perhaps even want to be alive.

It’s here, in this moment, while they stare at one another’s bodies, it's one last chance to avenge Shireen’s murder. 

Davos swallows. He wants Stannis. He finally climbs onto the bed and collects one of the fur throws. He lies down at Stannis’ side, and covers their bodies with it. Stannis’ head turns towards him and they lie together, sharing breaths.

One kiss, and Davos knows it will end. The walls will break. They will have to be equals, and Davos will have to begin to forgive. They will follow one another to the very end of the earth. If there are hells, they will find them together.

Davos thinks he is weak as he acknowledges the likelihood of his surrender. It is warm beneath the furs as the heat from their bodies seems to entwine, wrapping around them even before they touch. Davos knows he is weak, as he presses their foreheads together.

And Stannis waits for him. Davos leans forward again, and Stannis’ eyes fall closed. And with one last fleeting thought of life versus death, Davos chooses to give him life. Their lips meet, and the sound which escapes Davos is one of sheer relief. Stannis reaches for him and pulls him closer, fingertips digging into his skin.

Davos searches his mouth with his tongue as though Stannis will be able to breathe air into him. As though they are keeping one another alive now. Stannis follows his lead, their tongues meet, it’s passion, bursting through Davos’ core.

Everything inside him feels warm, pleasure coiling in his stomach, desire unravelling within him. His cock hardens, and he aches to be touched. He reaches down between their bodies and takes Stannis’ prick in hand.

Stannis is hard too, his cock leaking. His cheeks are flushed pink, his body trembling, and seven hells, he is practically whimpering. Davos captures his sounds with a kiss, and lets out a keening sound as Stannis’ hand wraps around his own length.

The angles are awkward, and Davos has to remember not to kick Stannis’ stump leg, for it still causes him pain. But it feels like oblivion all the same. To be touched by someone, to be kissed, to be joined and united.

He wants this like he’s wanted nothing before. He bucks his hips into Stannis’ hand. Stannis is stroking him, teasing him with his fingertips, experimenting with pressure and with speed. They stare at one another, gasping, sharing panting breaths. Their hands are hidden beneath the furs, and somehow it adds another layer of burning desire to the proceedings.

When Stannis comes, he does so with a cry, his head buried in Davos’ neck. He lets go of Davos’ prick, and Davos strokes himself a few times until everything goes white and blissful and he is spilling his seed over their stomachs.

It’s wet and messy between their bodies, but they entangle all the same, kissing in a lazy fashion. Stannis kisses over Davos’ cheeks and it’s so tender and so chaste that Davos can hardly believe he is in bed with the same person.

He holds Stannis in his arms, and though Davos finally cries for Shireen and cries for the king he once knew, and he despairs and he longs to sleep and not wake up, he would not trade this for anything.

He wakes with Stannis still beside him, resting on his side, his eyes closed, his teeth grinding as he sleeps. Davos lets his fingers stroke along his jaw, hoping to soothe his restless mind.

For the first time, he is relieved to see Stannis is alive. And when he wakes too, he strokes Davos to completion, and though they both know these moments cannot last, it seems to be enough to give them some peace.

They spend the days in Stannis’ room, playing games, reading, talking to Jon Snow. And then the war begins.

The fire burns strong in the bedroom. Stannis stands by the window, leaning on the splints. Davos stands behind him and kisses the side of his neck.

The dragon soars above the castle and the wall, breathing fire.

“I think we may be doomed,” Stannis mutters.

But Davos feels a small smile emerge on his face. He tilts Stannis’ head so they are looking at one another, and he kisses his lips for what may be the last time. “Or perhaps we are saved,” he whispers. He doesn’t just mean by the dragons. Perhaps they have saved one another. Perhaps they have cemented their positions in hell. Either way, they are united now, as one.

Stannis gives his hand a brief squeeze. “Until the bitter end,” he whispers. “I stand beside you.”

“And I beside you.”

Then Davos picks up his sword and takes his position beside the door. Whatever may come through it, he will fight for his king.

And he will love his king until his dying breath.


End file.
